Bretts death

Brett’s body was cold, with a bluish tint, and his mouth was ajar. The coroner was wheeling the chest saw over the table when I bend down to look at the wound between his eyes.
“This is a clean wound, doc.” I said. “I don’t see any sign of power burns.”

“And you won’t see any. He wasn’t shot.”

“What the hell you mean, he wasn’t shot. I can see the hole right here.”

The coroner turned on the water that filled the trough around the body. The noise was surprisingly loud in the quiet room.
“Brett Favre was hit between the eyes with the end of a football.”

“You’re shittin’ me. Favre was killed by a football?”

“Yep.” the coroner said.

“How the hell can you tell that?”

“They found traces of the leather used in footballs in the wound. Please step back, this is a little messy.”

The saw ramped up to it’s full speed, as I stooded stunned by this new revelation. Brett Favre killed by the tools of his trade.

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